Let Them Eat Fruitcake!

      I am one of the few remaining fruitcake aficionados, one who believes the holiday treat has gotten a bum rap. It didn’t help any, when a congressman during an angry outburst a few years back called his colleague a “fruitcake,” because of the nutty qualities they shared.

     But it was Johnny Carson, who put the hurt on fruitcake, when he declared that there was only one left in the world and it was being passed around among gift givers each year. Not so, according to those who collect fruitcake data.  Americans buy over five million in grocery stores alone, which doesn’t account for mail orders and independent bakeries. 

      Harry and David, who specialize in holiday gift boxes, sell over 100,000 at $20 each, which means pound-wise they are selling at the price of a fine cheese.  The recipe at Harry and David’s is such a secret that no one person knows the entire formula. One work shift comes in and makes half of it, the next shift makes the other half, and the third shift mixes the two parts together. As the myth goes, the original recipe is on the back of an envelope locked away in a special vault.

     The fruitcakes’ greatest claim to fame is that it lasts nearly forever and is the one thing that cannot be broken in shipping.  Because of its unique qualities, the sturdy cake was a perfect travel companion for medieval crusaders and also came in handy when their catapults ran out of ammo.

      In testimony to the cake’s longevity, one 125-year-old fruitcake showed up on the Tonight Show some years ago.  An Ohio housewife had baked it shortly before she died in 1878. The family didn’t have the heart to eat or dispose of the cake.  Instead, they kept it under glass and showed it off on special occasions.

     Now, for those of you thinking to send me your spare fruitcakes, please note that I don’t care for just any old fruitcake.  My favorite is a pound cake-style that I used to bake that was loaded with candied cherries and pecans and laced with an ancient preservative called bourbon.  In recent years, however, I have found the sinfully rich cakes offered by the Trappist monks at Assumption Abbey in Ava, Missouri, a splendid substitute, though darker and fruitier.

     Their recipe comes from the world-class chef Jean-Pierre Auge, who once worked for the Duke and Duchess of Windsor.  On their website, the baking monks remind us that their monastery is not a commercial enterprise—though a 2-lb. cake can be purchased for $31, plus shipping.  The brothers say that it is their life-style combined with careful work and a dedication to high quality that makes their product among the country’s finest.

     For those who take fruitcake even more seriously, there is the Society for the Protection and Preservation of Fruitcake that promotes the fine, fruity nature of the holiday tradition year round.  If you have a spare fruit cake around the house, there is always the Manitou Springs, Colorado, annual Great Fruitcake Toss, where contestant compete to see who can hurl pieces of leftover cake the greatest distance.

     But, tempting though it may be, never insult fruitcakes by suggesting that a mouthy Republican embodies the spirit and makeup of this noble, holiday confection.  If you have ever lifted a fresh-baked cake from the oven, you know that fruitcakes have far more gravitas than most of their politicians.